


No Bed of Roses

by ShortInsomniac98



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blow Jobs, Comedy, Funny, Humor, Lemon, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Smut, Title from a Queen Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 13:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20779343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShortInsomniac98/pseuds/ShortInsomniac98
Summary: Smut turned comedy. Aziraphale gives Crowley head in the Bentley, and the Bentley reacts in its own proper fashion.





	No Bed of Roses

**Author's Note:**

> The title obviously comes from Queen's "We Are the Champions." You'll see why in a minute.

Mozart. That was nice. Fine chap. Aziraphale had liked him. His music at least. It was Crowley who had known him, though, and now it was Crowley who was fumbling to slide the bloody disc into the Bentley’s CD player as Aziraphale kissed his neck with such tenderness and urgency that he thought he’d melt before they even had a chance to clamber over into the back seat.

Before he knew what was happening, Aziraphale’s hands were at the zip of his trousers, and before he could say anything, Aziraphale was tugging them down. Then there was his mouth on him. Crowley let out a high, breathy moan, practically whimper, and he buried a hand in Aziraphale’s hair.

“_Fuck_,” he breathed, his head falling back and his eyes closing. “Angel, that feels…_oh, fuck._”

With his free hand he clutched the bottom of the steering wheel, just to have something to hold onto to ground himself, to maintain some control. He ran his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, entwining them in it and pulling it gently almost without meaning to.

“_Aziraphale_,” he moaned. “_Hmm_….”

Aziraphale slowly took more of him into his mouth and hummed softly, the sound vibrating beautifully around Crowley’s cock.

“_Yes_,” Crowley said. “Oh…_oh, fuck_.”

Involuntarily, his hips pressed upward. Aziraphale gagged and repositioned himself.

“Sorry,” Crowley sighed halfheartedly.

His eyes squeezed shut tight and he cried out as the pleasure he was feeling reached its peak, and just as he did, the music which he’d almost forgotten he’d put on changed. Violins were replaced by electric guitars, and the sweet sound of a flute was abruptly switched to the strong voice of Freddie Mercury.

_“Weeee are the champions, my frie-ends, and weeee’ll keep on fighting ‘til the eeend…”_

Aziraphale gagged again, and pulled away, a look of confusion on his flushed face as he watched Crowley slam his finger into the on/off button on the car radio to no avail.

“What is that?”

“A recurring problem in my life,” Crowley said.

“Wait,” Aziraphale laughed. “This happens whenever you—”

“No!” Crowley almost shouted.

“Then…?”

“If I leave a tape or a CD or—or whatever in my bloody car for more than a fortnight, it turns into bloody Queen,” he said, pulling his trousers back up.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, nodding as though everything in the world suddenly made sense.

“What?”

“You know, I guess I just always thought you really liked them,” Aziraphale said.


End file.
